Against Medical Advice
by Sophia Hawkins
Summary: Oneshot. Colonel Decker thought he was just going to the hospital for a routine surgery. Unfortunately, somebody at the hospital had other plans; fortunately, so did the A-Team.


Against Medical Advice

Colonel Roderick Decker did not march into the building ahead, least of all not in typical military fashion. He walked at a notably slower pace these days than usual, which was why he had distanced himself from Crane and the MPs after the last failed attempt to catch the A-Team.

Once again he'd been _so_ close to finally catching them and sending them back to Fort Bragg where they belonged, and at the last second during the chase, a truck came out of nowhere and barreled across the intersecting direction of the road they were on. All the MP cars had swerved to avoid the truck and they all wound up slamming into each other, and the A-Team had rode off into the sunset _once again_. At the time Decker wasn't sure what hurt worse, his pride because this must've been the 20th time they'd eluded him at the last minute, or his body, which had emerged from the collision with a typical amount of bumps and bruises from yet another chase-turned-crash, nothing he hadn't been through a dozen times before. The problem was that over time the rest of the minor aches and pains had dissipated, but there was one massive pain he was still experiencing that showed no signs of letting up, and after a week of waiting for it to go away on its own, he finally decided to bite the bullet and see a doctor. Once he'd gotten his diagnosis, and been informed he needed to check into the hospital to have surgery, he decided instead he'd rather bite the doctor than the bullet.

Serving in Vietnam, Decker had had his share of trips to the field hospitals during battle when possible, and if he had a choice he'd rather be back in the jungle drudging through three miles of mud and swamp water to have a bullet taken out of him by some boob with horribly limited supplies available with which to successfully perform the procedure without further infection or blood loss, than to be in an actual hospital in the middle of the city of Los Angeles for _any_ kind of surgery, let alone the variety he was scheduled for. In Vietnam his life had _depended_ on trusting the medical knowhow of the men out there, and given the severity of the circumstances, they'd taken their roles _most_ seriously; _here_ there was no shortage of incompetent quacks from here all the way to the East Coast, which was why he'd always made it a priority of his to _not_ need a doctor when and where possible. Now he was faced with a situation he couldn't back out of, forcing him to actually place his life in the hands of some overpaid, under-qualified, grade A _moron_ , and it infuriated him to no end. The _only_ consolation he could think of was at least it _wasn't_ the V.A., it didn't matter which V.A., it didn't matter what state, per its national average, the Veterans' Administrative reputation preceded it and every military man that had made it back home knew if you had a _choice_ , to _not_ go there for medical treatment unless you were out of options, Decker was _not_. Though right now he wasn't entirely sure coming here wasn't _just_ as much a mistake as going to the V.A. was. Granted this was one of the most renowned hospitals in greater L.A., still didn't prove anything, didn't guarantee _he_ wouldn't get the certifiable nut job who wasn't even certified yet and had no idea what the hell he was doing.

The automatic doors of the hospital's entrance slid open as he walked in, and looked around the waiting room, _full_ of people, what the hell were they here for? To see a doctor themselves, or to pick someone up, or get news about someone _else_ in with a doctor? Any way you looked at it, he could be here till Doomsday. He bypassed all the chairs lined against the walls and headed over to the front desk to speak with the nurse about finding out where the hell he was supposed to go for his surgery. On the way he was completely oblivious to and passed straight by an orderly in powder blue scrubs, complete with a cap concealing his hair and a mask covering half of his face. The orderly however noticed Decker, and with a silent but wide eyed expression, backed on out of the waiting room and hightailed it back to the doctors' locker room.

* * *

Inside the locker room, Hannibal, B.A. and Murdock were all in the process of getting 'scrubbed'. Hannibal pulled his mask up and told the other two men, "This is perfect, our own mothers wouldn't recognize us."

"Speak for yourself, Hannibal," B.A. grumbled from behind his mask.

"B.A., just be glad we were able to find a pair of scrubs _your_ size," Hannibal replied.

Murdock pulled his mask up over his nose and let his eyes do half of the talking as they gleamed maniacally as he clapped a hand on B.A.'s shoulder and added, "That's right, Big Guy, you have any idea how hard it is to find a pair size 42 Redwood?"

"Hannibal!"

"Knock it off you two," the colonel's voice was evidently annoyed by their bickering, "We've got exactly 1 hour before everything blows, so we've got to be ready _and_ alert."

The door flew open and Face zipped in and threw himself back against the door to close it and pulled his mask down, huffing and puffing as he explained, "Hannibal! You'll never guess who just walked in here."

"Ben Casey?" Murdock asked.

"It's Decker," Face told their colonel.

"Decker?" Hannibal repeated, a look of disbelief on his face, "How the hell'd he find us _this_ time?"

Face huffed and puffed a couple more times and told Hannibal just before he collapsed on the floor, "I don't think he's looking for us, he's here to have surgery."

"What?" B.A. asked from behind his mask.

Hannibal turned and subtly rolled his eyes as he addressed the others and told them, "Well _that_ complicates things a _great_ deal. Now we've got to completely reroute this plan and _still_ get out of here before the crud hits the fan." He looked back at Face and asked, "What kind of surgery could Decker possibly be getting?"

* * *

A simple procedure, they said. Be good as new and back at work within a week, they said. Decker paced his disgustingly sterile hospital room as all these thoughts ran through his mind.

It was the day of the surgery and already Decker resented being there; he resented having to go 24 hours without anything to eat, he resented being forced out of his regular clothes into one of those _stupid_ paper gowns with the back slit open, he resented being told that his gallbladder had to be removed immediately to prevent any future problems and to settle the current ones he was suffering from that were causing him so much pain, he resented being _here_ when he had work to do, namely, catching the A-Team.

The door to his room opened and a nurse stepped in and in a sickeningly cheerful, and downright condescending tone, inquired, "Good morning, Mr. Decker, how are _we_ this morning?"

Above all else, Decker resented the blatant disrespect he'd been shown since he came to this hospital: both as a person, _and_ as a colonel. Here he had no rank, his military past was of _no_ importance since they couldn't determine any pre-existing conditions stemming back to his time in the jungle, therefore he was _just_ another patient, to be put off, ignored, talked down to, to say nothing of having both himself, _and_ his diagnosis, mixed up with a dozen other patients currently awaiting their turns in the OR. He had half a mind to find a marker and write his name and condition on his body so it was the first thing they saw when they started to operate, _and_ outline where the scalpel was supposed to be cutting.

And this was coming close to the last straw.

"What the hell is this _we_ crap?" he demanded to know, "Are they taking _your_ gallbladder out today as well?"

His response didn't seem to faze the young bubbly woman any. She just deflected him, "I'm sorry, Mr. Decker, we just want to make sure you're all ready for your surgery this morning."

"All I've got to do is inhale their anesthesia and go limp," he told the nurse, "You ought to make sure those idiots who call themselves _surgeons_ are the ones ready for this."

The nurse just smiled and responded, "The doctor will be in to see you shortly, try and relax."

"I never relax," he called after her even though she was already leaving the room.

The door closed behind the nurse and Decker resumed pacing the room. Those skirts they called nurses were every bit as incompetent as the doctors themselves, the entire medical profession was such a crock it was a wonder how it managed to stay in business, it was all beyond him.

A few minutes later the door opened and another nurse, this one wearing a surgical mask for some reason, entered the room and said, "Good morning, Mr. Decker."

"Get out of here," he all but growled at her, "One of you were already in here."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Decker," the nurse replied, not sounding sorry at all, "The doctor just wants to get you mildly sedated before we take you to the OR."

"What in the hell for?" Decker wanted to know.

"Just a precaution against any pre-surgery jitters that might lead to unintended injures," the nurse answered, "It's standard procedure."

It didn't sound standard to him, but what the hell would he know? This was his first time getting his gallbladder taken out. He thought the whole idea sounded stupid but he'd already put up with every last moron in this building to know fighting them wasn't going to accomplish one damn thing, so he complied and watched as the nurse alcohol swabbed a patch on his arm and stuck the needle in and pressed the plunger.

"I thought all those painkillers were supposed to be injected intravenously," Decker smartly commented.

"The doctor will get you hooked up to an IV, and the doctor will be with you shortly," the nurse said as she took the needle and left the room.

Incompetents, every last one of them.

A few minutes after the nurse left, a sudden wave of dizziness fell over Decker, his vision blurred and the room around him looked like it was starting to spin. He grabbed the railing on the side of his hospital bed to steady his balance, but the feeling didn't pass. Suddenly he felt like he couldn't stay awake if his life depended on it, and his legs started to feel weak, like they were tied down with weights. He inched his way back to the bed and more or less fell back against it, and there he stay for several minutes, waiting for the lightheadedness to pass. It didn't. He closed his eyes and hoped that in a couple minutes his vision would be clear again.

* * *

Decker became aware of somebody standing over him, talking. He forced his eyes open, he didn't know where he was, what time it was, all he saw was a doctor standing over him already scrubbed for the surgery.

"Ah, Colonel Decker, how are you feeling?" the doctor asked, and a small gleam was visible in his eyes.

Decker opened his mouth to respond but it took a couple tries to actually form any words, this on top of the fact that the doctor's own words still hadn't fully registered with him yet. Something was trying to click in his mind but it wasn't working yet, whatever it was.

 _Colonel_.

Nobody in the hospital called him that.

Decker forced his eyes open again and tried to focus on the man standing above him, and slurred out, "Who…'re you?"

The man, whose face was shielded behind his mask and cap, answered nonchalantly, "I'm Dr. Smith, I'm going to be your attending physician today."

There was something to what the doctor said that Decker knew didn't sound right, but he was fading out of consciousness and fading fast, and he wasn't able to figure out what it was before unconsciousness started to take him.

Another man, this one of notably slighter build and also in scrubs, entered the room wheeling in a gurney. Decker was almost completely out of it now, but in the deep recesses of his mind he would've sworn he heard the second man's voice somewhere before as he asked, "Is the patient ready?"

"As ready as he'll ever be," the doctor answered.

Between the two of them, they lifted Decker off the bed and onto the gurney and wheeled the now largely unconscious colonel out of his private room and down the long hospital corridor. Along the way, Decker saw and acknowledged the large lights overhead in the ceiling, the sight of the two men pushing him on the gurney, the tiles of the ceiling as they passed, but his mind was too far gone to concentrate on any of it, and he was unconscious before they even reached the operating room.

Decker was wheeled into the operating room and transferred from the gurney onto the operating table. The surgical team were all scrubbed and making the final preparations for the procedure. A rubber mask was placed over Decker's nose and mouth to feed the anesthesia to him to ensure he didn't wake up during the surgery, and gauze pads were taped over his already closed eyes, and he was hooked up to machines to monitor his heart rate and blood pressure. The presiding surgeon picked up a scalpel and was just about to go to work when the doors flew open and three more men in powder blue scrubs entered the hospital room, all of them wielding guns.

"Alright," the clearly oldest one of the bunch, with some graying white hair sticking out from under his scrub cap and a military rifle aimed at the opposing men in blue, addressed the operating room and told them, "Sorry, gentlemen, but this surgery has been canceled."

The two other men carried handguns and kept them aimed at the anesthesiologist and the surgical assistant as they crossed over to the other side of the room.

"You cut into him yet?" one of them demanded to know.

"No," the surgeon answered, trying to remain blasé about what was going on, but it was obvious by the shaking in his voice that he was failing miserably at it.

"Good," the white haired man said, and told the anesthesiologist, "Wake him up, _now_."

"Now see here," the surgeon said, "What's this about?"

"You know what it's about," the white haired man insisted, then turned to the doors and called out, "B.A.!"

"And just a word of advice, gentlemen," the man who ordered the anesthesiologist around, told the others in the room, "Don't even _think_ about trying to call for help, we already took the liberty of taking out your alarm systems _and_ your phone lines."

"Yep," the third man said cockily, his eyes wild and half squinted and glistening all at the same time, "Looks like this hospital's _whole_ operation has been shut down. This is gonna be good!" the man was almost laughing with glee at whatever was going on the surgical team was not aware of.

A small cough escaped Decker's body after the gas was turned off and the tape removed from his eyes, but otherwise the colonel was still dead to the world and blissfully unaware of what was going on around him, but it was good enough for the men who crashed the operation.

B.A.!" Hannibal called to the door again.

This time the doors flew open and the surgical team watched in awe as in stepped a large black man also in scrubs, wheeling in another gurney, and moved it over to the operating table. Two of the men moved Decker onto the gurney while the other two held the OR attendants at gunpoint. Finally, the leader of the gang pulled down his mask, revealing himself to be none other than Hannibal Smith of the A-Team, not that this meant anything to the doctors who were paralyzed with fear.

"Now, _here's_ how it's going to work," he told them, "We're going to take Colonel Decker out of here, and the lot of _you_ are going to stay _right here_ for five minutes. If any of you so much as set one _toe_ outside of this operating room before that much time has passed, rest assure we _will_ find out, and we _will_ be back, and we'll _kill_ you." He pulled his mask up again and told the others, "Let's get out of here."

The other three men grabbed part of the gurney and ran it and the unconscious colonel out of the OR and down the corridor. Hannibal followed behind them, watching every which way to make sure nobody tried to be a hero and stop them, if they did, he was ready; they were walking out of here through the front door and _nothing_ was going to stop that.

They reached the hospital's exit and ran the gurney out and directly over to where the ambulances unloaded patients; there was one such ambulance parked there and waiting for them, and beside it was the A-Team's van, and between the two of them was Dr. Maggie Sullivan, who looked ready to lay an egg.

"Come on!" she called to them anxiously.

Hannibal peeled off his mask and cap and told her, "We're coming!"

Maggie had the doors to the ambulance open so they could load Decker in the back, and they wasted no time in doing just that. They got him in the back, and Maggie climbed in to make sure he was stable for the ride, then Hannibal and B.A. went around to the front to drive out of there, and Face and Murdock, also shedding their surgical scrubs, climbed into the van and backed it out of the hospital parking lot alongside the ambulance, and both of them sped out of the area just a couple of minutes before sirens filled the air and police cars and black vans raced in from all sides and surrounded the hospital perimeters.

* * *

Hannibal drove the ambulance and floored it 20 miles with the siren going to get all the upcoming traffic out of their way.

"Maggie, how's the patient?" he called to the back of the ambulance.

Maggie popped her head up from the back and answered, "He'll live, but he's got a _sick_ gallbladder."

"No kidding," Hannibal said half casually, half sarcastically as he managed to keep his eyes on the road, "What do you think I'm doing up here, practicing for the Grand Prix?"

B.A. was also watching the road ahead, and he had a grimmer feeling about their immediate future.

"Hannibal," he told the Colonel, "You drive almost as bad as Murdock flies."

"Thanks, B.A.," Hannibal replied nonchalantly. He checked the side mirror and saw that the van was keeping in hot pursuit of them so they could do a quick bait and switch once they arrived at the hospital.

B.A. pointed up ahead and told him, "There it is! There's the hospital!"

"Hang on!" Hannibal told the others as he hit the brakes.

The ambulance swerved to the side and the force threw everybody forward as they came to a complete stop. B.A. and Hannibal got out and went around to the back to open it up just as two paramedics came out to unload the ambulance and wheel Decker in, where there was an operating room already prepared for his arrival.

"Make sure you take good care of him," Hannibal advised the men as they unloaded the gurney and started to wheel Decker to the entrance. He told the medics, "This man's served his country, he's entitled to the proper respect." Under his breath he added, "Even if he doesn't _deserve_ it."

The automatic doors opened as Decker was taken inside, then they closed behind the rapidly vanishing men in blue, and then it was all over. Hannibal, B.A. and Maggie went over to the van and got in. There was some momentary squabbling as B.A. ordered Murdock to get out of the driver's seat or else get sat on, and Murdock decided to comply instead of becoming a seat cover for a 230 pound angry mudsucker driver. Once everybody was seated, B.A.'s foot met with the accelerator, and they were out of there.

"Thanks for helping us, Maggie," Hannibal said as he turned in his seat and addressed the woman doctor in the back seated between Face and Murdock, "This would've been a hard one to pull off without your help."

Maggie just smirked at him and responded, "Oh, I'm sure you would've figured _something_ out, Hannibal Smith, you _usually_ do."

"So exactly how much time do you think it'll buy us once Decker gets the operation?" Face asked.

"Long enough to get Murdock back to the V.A. before anybody suspects anything, that's for sure," Hannibal answered.

"I still can't believe what you found out," Maggie told him.

Hannibal turned to the front again and responded, "I can hardly believe it myself and I saw it with my own eyes."

* * *

Decker didn't know what had happened, or where he was, all he knew was he was in pain like he couldn't remember _ever_ having before. He'd woken up a few times but he was still so out of it that he didn't have the first idea what was going on, or _why_ he was in constant pain. He zoned in and out of consciousness and the ins were few and short lived, the outs, he had no idea, all he knew was the pain wasn't as bad when he was _out_.

"Good morning, Colonel Decker."

Now _that_ voice he recognized, he knew he knew it from somewhere, he could almost place it…wait a minute…

He opened his eyes and saw Hannibal Smith standing over him, a big, mischievous smirk on his face.

"Smith," Decker choked out in a low groan. His throat felt like he hadn't talked for weeks, like he hadn't had a drink of water in days. He forced himself to wake up and come around, so he could make some sense of what was going on here. He made his eyes focus and sure enough, Hannibal Smith was _still_ standing over him. It was also then that Decker realized he was in a hospital room, but he also had the presence of mind to know it was not _his_ hospital room.

"Where the hell are we?" he asked, looking around and not recognizing anything.

"In the hospital, Decker," Hannibal answered, "You had your gallbladder removed, remember?"

"Wrong room," Decker said weakly as his head flopped back against the pillow.

Hannibal shook his head, "No, right room, _different_ hospital, I'm sure you won't mind, we took the liberty of removing you from the first one."

Decker was slowly starting to be able to make more sense of what Hannibal was saying, and asked the other colonel, "What in the hell are you talking about?"

Smith's face grew grim as he said to Decker, "You really _don't_ know what happened back there, do you?"

Decker's mind was somewhere else. He sat up in the bed and demanded to know, "How'd you get in here?"

"Through the front door," Hannibal answered simply.

Decker threw back the sheets and tried to get up, a move he regretted instantly.

"Take it easy, Decker," Hannibal told him, "There'll be plenty of time for our little games later. Right now you've got a surgery to heal up from."

"And how…would you know…about that?" Decker asked, struggling to stay awake and alert.

Hannibal flashed his trademark smirk and coyly replied, "My dear colonel, I know _everything_."

"This has got to be a nightmare," Decker said, half to himself and half to Hannibal, then fully to Hannibal, "Either this is a dream or I've died in the surgery and this is hell."

"Well you're not too far off, Decker," Hannibal told him.

Decker was slowly becoming more lucid and he addressed Hannibal, "All the times I've spent chasing _you_ , and this time _you_ come to me… _why_?"

"Believe me, Decker, it wasn't my idea," Hannibal answered.

The door opened and Face stuck the top half of his body in and asked cautiously, "Everything okay in here?"

"You're just in time, Face," Hannibal told his lieutenant, "Come on in."

Decker turned to the door and was now in even further disbelief, "Peck, so you're in on this as well." He tried to sit up again and demanded to know, "What the _hell_ is going on around here?"

Face was carrying the morning paper under his arm and held it out for Decker to see and answered, "Read that."

Decker looked down at the front page story but he was still feeling whacked out on whatever medication they had him on, only certain words stuck out: Hospital, Indicted, written by Amy Allen, organ harvesting.

Hannibal could see that the connection of the words was currently lost on Decker, so he took the paper and said to the other colonel, "Ever see that movie with the coma patients hanging from wires in the ceiling?"

"I doubt Decker's the kind of guy who gets out to watch much of anything," Face commented.

Hannibal regarded the not-quite-all-there colonel and pressed one thumb directly over one of Decker's eyes to force his eyelid up and he asked Decker, "Can you understand me, Roderick?"

Decker didn't answer but slowly nodded. Hannibal let his eye droop half shut again and took a step back.

"You asked _why_ we were at that hospital when you came in," Hannibal told Decker, "We were there on a job, our latest client came to us with a request _most_ unusual."

"Seems that her brother died under very unusual circumstances during a rather simple, 'routine' operation, and the hospital shut her down anytime she tried to get answers about it, about what happened during his operation, and about _how_ his body was so quickly disposed of, cremated without the family's consent."

"Turns out," Hannibal took it from there, "That wasn't the only such case, there have been a few of them in the last few months, for being one of _the_ best hospitals in Los Angeles, they have a _lot_ of unusual deaths to answer for that they've done everything to _avoid_ answering for."

What Hannibal _didn't_ mention was that part of the reason he even knew about that was through Maggie Sullivan. Doctors tended to talk amongst one another, and patients also talked to doctors, and families of patients also talked to doctors and _those_ doctors tended to talk to other doctors, it was all a nice, confusing game of medical 'Telephone' that somehow wound its way back to Hannibal's ear during one of their scarce dates, and it had gotten the gears grinding in his head, and told him they were looking at far more than just an isolated freak case.

He looked at Decker and added, "Now you're a smart guy, Decker, you know about the black market, anything and everything that is illegal to buy or sell, there _is_ a market for: filled to the brim with buyers and sellers, each side only _too_ happy to provide either their money or their services or a product to the other side, the supply and demand's something to die for, often times _quite_ literally."

Decker was slowly becoming more alert and what the two members of the A-Team were telling him was gradually becoming more coherent, and he was slowly starting to put the pieces together, and it was a grim prospect.

"So many people die every single day in hospitals, especially big hospitals, especially big ones in the middle of large cities home to millions of people, and as long as there's malpractice everything can be evened out, or swept under the rug, families can be settled with, _everybody's_ happy, more or less," Hannibal explained, "So _who_ 's going to notice if a few more people start dying during surgery each month? Who's going to care that out of the 200,000 cases that come to the hospital every single year, if a dozen or so bodies just happen to be 'accidentally' cremated before a coroner's inquest?"

"Except they _weren't_ cremated," Face told Decker, getting the colonel to turn his head and look towards him, "Not right away anyway. Laws of supply and demand indicate that there's a greater market for organ transplants than there are available, _willing_ volunteers looking to donate either in life or after it."

"And despite our nation's attempts to make it so," Hannibal added, "There really _isn't_ a wide supply of _perfectly_ healthy patients to get transplantable organs from…" he shrugged, "But who's going to know better until it's too late?"

"In a world where people can be on waiting lists for new lungs and livers and kidneys for months or _years_ ," Face said to Decker, "If a couple dozen or so readily available organs happen to pop up for sale on the black market a year: hearts, lungs, livers, kidneys, skin, _eyes_ , there _will_ be a booming business for them."

"And there is," Hannibal said, "We found out that those 'saints in surgical garbs' at the hospital were purposely killing select patients and harvesting their organs to rake in a few million dollars a year."

Decker looked at the colonel and the lieutenant and inquired, "And how'd _you_ happen to find out?"

On that one, Hannibal was only too happy and too readily prepared to answer, "Everybody keeps records, even ones they never want found. Remember Nixon? Well, once we found out who to ask and where to go, we _found_ the records alright…freshly extracted kidney of a perfectly healthy marathon runner, can be flown to New York in 6 hours, all to the tune of about $75,000. And even in the black market you get what you pay for, a buyer faced with a prognosis of 6 weeks to live can decide if they want to get their affairs in order and say their goodbyes, or scrounge up $20,000 for a second rate liver half diseased because its original owner was an alcoholic, but the buyer thinks he's getting a great deal, and it's on him if he wants to take the gamble on buying himself more _time_."

"When we found out _you_ were having surgery we managed to pull the files they had on you," Face told Decker, "Found out during your tests _before_ the operation was scheduled, you'd been tissue typed, as were all the other patients who mysteriously died during 'routine' surgeries."

"Somebody was going to pull a fast one with you, Decker," Hannibal said, "We'd found an order in the records, they were supposed to next come up with a grade-A set of lungs to the combined tune of $60,000. Now let's be realistic, lungs like _yours_ shouldn't be worth more than 5 grand a _piece_ on the black market."

As everything that Hannibal and Face were saying started to click in Decker's mind, he gradually began to appear downright nauseated. He looked at Hannibal like he was going to throw up right _on_ the man and said in a disbelieving tone, "You, you… _you_ saved my life?"

"We got in the OR just as they were starting the operation," Hannibal said, "We had an exact time window to get you the hell out of there, because we'd _already_ informed the local, state and _federal_ authorities what was going on and were just waiting for them to arrive. We took care of their security staff and dismantled any attempts they could've made to call out for help or for reinforcements, and were also keeping an eye on the operating rooms, nobody else who was scheduled had been typed for compatibility, and everyone else had already been finished with their surgeries before they started with yours."

"And we got out of there _just_ before the SWAT Team raided the hospital," Face told Decker, "And got you to _this_ far more reputable place for your operation. It's nothing fancy but it has a notably higher survival rate among 'routine' patients."

It was obvious that this newfound information was quickly becoming too much for Decker to fully take in, the expression on his face would've been appropriate for a person traveling through the Twilight Zone at warp speed.

"The important thing is it's all over, everybody who was involved, at least on _this_ end, has been arrested and arraigned, none of them are going anywhere," Hannibal told Decker, "And you got one very black gallbladder taken out, so why don't you take it easy for the next few days, and we'll see you next week," jokingly he added, "Same time, same place."

It didn't sound like a bad idea, maybe Decker would get lucky and when he woke up find out all of this was just a bad dream. Evidently the body was far more willing than the mind was because before Decker could even make up his mind, his body fell back against the hospital bed and he was just about asleep. Clinging to consciousness, Decker threatened Hannibal in a weak voice, "I'm going to catch you next time, Smith, mark…my…words…"

"I'm sure you will, Decker," Hannibal said patronizingly as they watched the other colonel succumb to unconsciousness yet again, "At least you'll be here to try." As despicable as Hannibal always found Decker and his tactics in Vietnam, even _he_ couldn't justify harvesting the man's organs and selling them to the highest bidders all over the country.

"We better get going," Face said.

Hannibal nodded. They left the room and headed down the corridor to the front of the hospital and walked out the front doors. Outside in the parking lot, B.A. stood by his van, waiting.

"Let's go home," Hannibal said simply as they headed over to him.

"How'd it go, Hannibal?" B.A. asked.

Hannibal stopped just before he reached the van and feigning disappointment, said, "Decker can't come out and play, we'll have to try again some other time."

"The mere fact that we saved his life and shut down a body part chop shop of course won't have _any_ bearing on his decision to keep chasing us," Face said cynically.

"No, that would make too much sense," Hannibal said as he leaned against the passenger side door of the van, "Critical thinking never _was_ one of his finer skills and you know it."

Hannibal didn't let on to knowing somebody in the van had reached through the window and was poking the back of his head with their finger. He rolled his eyes and turned around and reached in the window and grabbed the hand, "Alright, Murdock…"

Then he stopped because he saw it was a smaller, softer, well manicured hand reaching through the window.

"Maggie?" Hannibal leaned in the window and looked in the backseat.

"Boo!" Amy leaned forward so she was now visible from the window.

"Very funny," Hannibal dryly remarked, and getting a better glance into the backseat, added in his drill sergeant voice, "Alright you kids, knock it off and come on out of there."

The back passenger door slid open and Murdock got out and Amy followed.

"This one didn't go out with a typical A-Team bang, now did it?" Amy inquired.

"Well we couldn't take the chance," Face told her, "The problem was that _everybody_ in the hospital wasn't in on the organ harvesting, only a few select doctors and other staff members."

"If it had _just_ been them, we could've gone in, guns blazing and had a shootout to end them all," Murdock added, "But there were too many innocent civilians in the way, so we had to just keep everything low key until the cops arrived."

"And subtly manage to get them all out of the way, one by one by one," Face told Amy, "A _very_ tiring job."

"How'd you manage to do that?" Amy asked.

"The patients we told we'd been notified of a gas leak in the hospital and they should evacuate immediately but quietly, the nurses and orderlies were another story," Face answered.

Amy put two and two together and said to him, "So you gave them one of your never failing Templeton Peck medical crisis enigmas as reason to get out."

"It works for getting _him_ out," Face pointed to Murdock, "And it made things a lot simpler, we'd already supplied the names and pictures of the doctors involved to the proper authorities so when they came busting in, they'd know exactly who to haul in. Helps simplify things if you don't have to actually sort through people."

"Alright everybody, haul in," Hannibal told them, "Let's get out of here before somebody sees us."

"What do you think will happen to those doctors that got arrested?" Amy asked as they drove out of the hospital parking lot and got back on the main street, "You think a plea deal can even be an option for them?"

"Lawyers just _love_ plea deals, and I'm sure judges do too," Face said, "Makes their jobs easier."

"But do you think they could actually get a plea deal for murdering a dozen people for money?" Amy asked.

"That unfortunately would probably depend on the odds any juror might have a loved one in _need_ of a transplant," Hannibal told her, "In which case, either they'd be lenient because they understand the desperation, _or_ they would condemn in a heartbeat to think somebody else could _pay_ for front-of-the-line service while _they_ have to wait and pray for months while time runs out."

"The fact that they murdered innocent people to do it wouldn't even be taken into consideration in that case," Amy pointed out.

"Unfortunately we know that's the way the 'justice' system works sometimes, both sides can get so hot and heavy over the issues they completely forget there're one or two or twelve dead bodies _behind_ it all."

"So what happens if they do?" Amy asked, "What happens if they get _out_?"

There was a brief silence as the members of the A-Team looked to one another as they pondered this question for the first time.

Hannibal supplied the answer, "If they do, we'll _find_ them."

"The problem is you can be sure this is going on in other hospitals all over the country, perhaps a bit more discreetly so nobody puts the pieces together," Face said, "Who's going to deal with them?"

"That's only _one_ problem, the other problem is in these instances, nobody can argue 'greater good' for the recipients because in these instances, the organs aren't going to who deserves them most, but who can _pay_ the most, and most generally, one _does_ tend to exclude the other," Hannibal noted.

"Well the only thing that's going to settle that matter is if there was a sudden increase in voluntary organ donors," Amy said, "And most people aren't willing to do it now, what could possibly make them change their minds?"

"I don't know," Hannibal said, "But I think it's only fair we do our own parts...the Army's not going to stop hunting us until they catch us, _should_ they ever catch us, _and_ try to execute us, I have no problem bartering for an immediate transplant of every usable organ in _my_ body to benefit someone who needs it."

"Are you serious?" Face asked.

Hannibal turned to face his lieutenant and asked, "Why not? I'll be dead anyway, it won't make any difference then. Think about it, what all could they take out of me? Kidneys, liver, maybe not the heart if we get a firing squad..."

"Definitely not the lungs," Amy mentioned.

Hannibal turned and glared at her through one eye and told her, "I'll have you know I've got the lungs of a newborn baby."

"Well give them back," Amy replied, "The baby needs them more than you do."

"Ha-ha...ha," Hannibal dryly responded.

"I think it's a wonderful idea, Colonel," Murdock said, "I think I'll put myself down for donation too."

"Murdock, when you die the only thing they can donate is your body to science so they can find out what you _are_ ," B.A. told the pilot.

Murdock ignored B.A.'s comment and counted off on his fingers, "I could donate my heart, my lungs, my liver, my kidneys, my blood, my eyes...I know, I'll have them throw in my brain too!"

"Murdock," Face struggled to keep a straight face, "I don't think anybody's going to have a use for your brain."

"The crazy fool ain't got a use for it _now_ either," B.A. told Face, "His head _rattles_ when he moves."

"Think about it, Face," Murdock said to the lieutenant, "Even in death you could travel all over the world, ain't that neat?"

"Ha, yeah, _neat_ ," Face unenthusiastically replied.

"Oh come on, Face," Amy said, "Don't tell me you've never thought about it."

Face turned to her and quizzed her, "Do _you_ happen to be a card carrying member?"

"Well no," Amy admitted, and turned to the front, "But after this experience, I just might reconsider that. If more people could agree to donate their organs when they died, there wouldn't be a _need_ for this side of the black market and a lot of killers-for-hire would be out a _lot_ of money."

"Yeah but here's my problem with it," Face told her, "Suppose you're in an accident, you're taken to the hospital, they find out you already signed up to be a donor, and they _could_ save you but they decide not to bother since they've got a fresh set of kidneys to extract?"

Amy looked at him and responded, "Seems to me enough non-donors are already dying for that reason. There's a market, people don't care _where_ it comes from."

"The fact remains it's a _choice_ for everyone," Hannibal told them, "And it's up to everybody to make the choice to do with it what they will. There are still some things you can't _force_ people to do and whether we agree with it or not, we have to respect that right of the individuals. It's one of the things that still makes our society a good one, despite all its other flaws."

"Maybe so, but I just hope we never get hired for another case like this," Face said.

"Why not?" Murdock asked, "Now that we're already experienced in the field, we'll know what to do next time."

"That's true, but there are some things in this world," Hannibal told his men as he took out a cigar, "That I hope we never _have_ a 'next time' on. And shutting down the Dr. Frankensteins of this world is definitely one of them."

"Amen," Face seconded.

A/N: I got the idea for this story after seeing the 1978 movie Coma and discovering Lance LeGault played a minor but vital role in it. Hope you enjoyed.


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